


From the Sea and Stars

by smallashes



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Gen, M/M, almost entirely introspective angst, has an overarching plot i swear, in which james is forced to face his sins, introspection more than anything tbh, post-reunion, told through a series of drabbles and vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-02-25 18:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13218897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallashes/pseuds/smallashes
Summary: There are questions to be answered, and an escape to be planned. After all, it seems to James, Captain Flint is not dead at sea as he hoped.Some experimental, introspective post-finale vignettes.





	1. i

There were matters to be discussed with Thomas, James knew, but the nagging thoughts that had festered at the back of his mind only subsided after the reality of their reunion had settled in. Thomas was alive, and for a brief moment he could forget the guards and their rifles patrolling the grounds, forget the ragged clothes and the burning heat, forget the plantation and its slaves (or were they prisoners? _Another matter_ , he thought, _to be discussed_ ). No, here all that mattered was Thomas and his touch.

And soon those thoughts crashed back down like the tides. He felt his grin fade, his fingers tighten around Thomas’ shirt. It had been a decade since he had last seen Thomas, and it felt like a lifetime. In fact, he realized, it _had_ been a lifetime: that decade saw the life and death of Captain James Flint. It saw the birth of Miranda Barlow and the death of Miranda Hamilton, and oh _God_ , Miranda, how would he tell Thomas?

“I thought you were dead.” Thomas’ voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“So did I. And yet… here we are,” James replied, a bitter grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What is this place?”

Thomas looked over James’ shoulder, his eyes following the path of a guard’s patrol. “A plantation,” he said plainly. “Perhaps more lenient than most, but it’s hardly ideal. Those _are_ loaded guns.”

“And how long do you wager we have before one comes our way?” James had felt naked the entire trip to the plantation not only from the shackles but also his lack of weapons. But God help anyone who dared separate them again, with or without weapons.

Thomas nodded to a man at the far end of the field, and James followed his gaze to a single guard who nodded in return, acknowledging Thomas’ gesture. “That’s Russell,” said Thomas. “Should trouble come our way, he will let me know.”

“You’ve made friends with the guards.” That was equally a statement of surprise as it was a question.

“Some, not all.” Thomas set a hand on James’ shoulder, and James felt some of that concern melt away. “Russell was born a peasant, and I found him struggling to read some letters from home. He still comes to me if he’s received anything. The others simply want to talk.”

James could almost laugh at that. Even after a decade, Thomas’ temperament hadn’t changed. “Ever the conversationalist. Why am I not surprised?” Their eyes met and James found himself examining Thomas’ face; he was older, certainly, but here was a beard that he had never seen before. He had tougher skin and rougher lines, and while he still _felt_ the same, Thomas’ appearance flooded him with questions. He was drowning in them and he needed air.

But Thomas pulled him in for another kiss, and James could feel the smile across his lips as he did. Thomas ran his hand across James’ jaw, then cheek, and up the nape of his neck to his hair. They broke off, although James felt himself trailing after more; there was a grin now, fully, across Thomas’ face. “You’ve cut your hair,” he said.

“And you’ve grown a beard,” James replied, returning that grin. He took both of Thomas’ arms in his hands, frowned, and took a breath. “I’ve a million questions to ask.”

Thomas rested his forehead on James’, his smile soft and melancholy. “So do I.”

†

When James McGraw catches the glances of the guards with their rifles and fenced off borders of the plantation, he knows he’s not yet rid of Captain Flint. He speaks with the guards Thomas had befriended, learns their names (Russell, Philip, Charles, Rogers, George), exchanges cover for stories of his life at sea. And under their supervision, he explores the perimeter.

The secrecy feels too similar to the assassinations he had took part in, that he had _led_. Had they truly been assassinations? No, he shakes his head. He remembers that rage during those raids. Assassination feels too cold, too distant. And the memory makes him grimace, disturbed by what he’s done, by what he’s capable of.

He turns his head to the stars above and stands near the edge of the field. For a moment, he can close his eyes and feel the warm breeze blow over him; imagining himself once again on the helm of a ship. He misses the smell of the salt in the sea, where the starry night meets the crashing tides of the ocean. But not much else, he realizes. He wouldn’t trade Thomas for that; the sea bears witness to too many of his own atrocities.

†

“Most of the guards here are understanding. More than I can say for Bedlam’s.”

“So you were in Bedlam.”

“I was.”

“For how long?”

“A year? I can’t say for certain. Bedlam worms its way into your psyche, cuts you open and leaves you bare. My father may have thought me insane, and while I wasn’t going into it, I very nearly went mad.”

A nudge in the dark. Head to shoulder, arm across chest.

“About your father.”

“Yes?”

“I killed him. Not long after our exile.”

“You did?” A beat, pause.

“He begged and pleaded, but I should have you know that I don’t regret it.”

“I would be lying,” and here, a slow, shaky inhale, “if I said I didn’t resent that man.”

“Miranda had learned of his location.”

“And what of Miranda?”

James felt his heart sink into his stomach.

“How is she?”

“I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

There was a shuddered breath and a sob, with words caught in their throats.

“I know you loved her; I’m so sorry.”

†

The guards are eager for James’ stories about piracy, and he tells them of Ben Hornigold, Charles Vane, Jack Rackham, Edward Teach, and none of Captain Flint. It felt strange to him, talking of his past in soft hushed tones late at night, when that life had been anything but. It had been loud, it had been violent, and it had been shouts of war and death over ocean and gunfire. And one night, before his inspection of the grounds, Russell stops him and asks him: “The pirates – Captain Vane, Captain Rackham, the lot – were they your friends?”

James doesn’t answer out of hesitation and uncertainty, until finally he draws a conclusion. “No,” he says. They had shared common goals but he could not call them his friends. Even members of his own crew, beyond a select few, were more afraid of Captain Flint than they had been friends with him.

“And what of Long John Silver? It was one of his men who came asking about this place, about Lord Hamilton.”

James feels some steel return. _He knew_ , he thinks. _He knew_. “He brought me here,” he says aloud.

“So you knew him, and you were friends with him?”

“He brought me here,” he says simply. In truth, he is unsure how he feels about Silver. The entire situation is far more complicated than he wants to admit. He would need to speak with Thomas, have him aid in sorting his frustrations, applying a sort of logic that James only knew Thomas to possess.

Russell, gratefully, does not press the questions further that night. But James still finds himself troubled by the thought as he plans an escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I haven't written fic in years. I missed the imagery of seafarers and pirates which I had a lot of in an old project I abandoned, so here we are instead.
> 
> Honestly not sure if I should continue this. If I do, it'll probably be until an escape or something but I mostly just write drabbles.


	2. ii

When dawn rises, the world takes a breath. The stars fade from the sky, the sun warms the world, and green becomes green again, red into red. And James glances down next to him, to a peaceful, still-sleeping Thomas, realizing then he had barely slept the entire night.

†

“You may, perhaps, not want to hear this, James. But all this talk of Captain Flint…. there were inklings of him in you even before our exile.”

It was an early evening, as the winter sun set below the horizon and the northern winds chilled even Georgia. They sat next to each other in a cot, a blanket shared between them, legs pressed together through thin clothes. James bit back a protest; to him, Flint was an entirely different man, and he wanted to believe that. He _needed_ to believe that, for his own sanity. “Flint has done things I never wanted to do.”

“Did he?” Thomas turned to face him with all his scrutiny, and James merely hung his head. “James McGraw was not afraid to start a fight with an entire _group_ of other members of the Admiralty in order to defend a friend. When you first told me of that incident, you said you acted impulsively, without thought. And that certainly was not the only incident. Because whether you like it or not, James, violence is an integral part of the very fabric of your being.”

“I’ve murdered in cold blood, Thomas. Innocents.” James felt his voice waver, but the exhaustion left him too tired to care. “Flint’s name became notorious within the Caribbean; there were _children_ who would happily have seen me killed. I was something to be afraid of, something they—“

Thomas interrupted him, and he felt his words lodge in his throat. “James.” He looked up from his lap to meet Thomas’ gaze. “Tell me: what did you expect you would achieve from this conversation? That I should walk away thinking you had become a monster? That you ask me to absolve you of your guilt? Or that I should shame you for what you’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” James replied. Discussing Captain Flint was a burden he so often wanted to avoid. It filled him with anger and grief and confusion-filled memories of the past decade. Did he regret his actions as Flint? Some things, certainly, but others he was less sure of. He knew there were some deeds that _deserved_ regret, that he had committed atrocities that could only be described as _atrocities_. Perhaps he was worried Thomas would deem him a monster. But he knew otherwise, oh how he knew otherwise.

Thomas took James’ hand and laced his fingers into his. “You don’t have to answer just yet,” he said. “This is a process that will take time… But I want you to know that I love you regardless of what you may feel toward yourself.”

James turned over and wrapped his free arm around Thomas’ torso, resting his face on his shoulder. He couldn’t relax completely – those nagging memories threatened to pull him back under, through tumultuous currents and cold, dark depths. But Thomas kissed him on the forehead and stroked his cheek, and tamed some of those currents, warmed some of those depths.

†

“Peter Ashe told me he visited you in Bedlam, and confessed his crimes and that he had _received_ your forgiveness.”

“He certainly visited. And perhaps he confessed, but I can recall no guilt for what he’d done. I did not – and would not – offer my forgiveness, even under such abuse.” A long, contemplative pause. “I wish I could…. find Miranda’s body and give her a proper burial. One that she deserves.”

“She would be glad to know that Peter Ashe is dead. That you and I are here, alive, together. She kept me from going mad in Nassau and I cannot say I would be here without her.”

“When he told me, in Bedlam, of his actions, it became very clear he was not the friend I had considered him to be. And then the bastard lies to you, kills my wife, and threatens to kill you, even after you’ve rescued his daughter.”

“London and this whole affair in Nassau have shown me the lengths some are willing to go to ensure their power and their riches. Even those who already have more wealth than entire colonies.”

“Is that how you feel toward Silver? That he betrayed you?”

“I don’t know. It’s not as though I’ve never betrayed anyone myself.”

“It’s alright if you don’t know. We still have time to sort things through.”

“Do we?”

†

In his dream, James is stranded at sea again. He is alone on the _Walrus_ , despite the presence he feels on his neck and at his back. He cannot tell if it is day or night, for there’s a brightness to his surroundings but the stars are scattered across the darkened canvas of a sky. And the sea is unusually still – there’s not a rock to the ship, no ebb nor flow of the waves below.

He stands at the base of the mainmast and looks for signs of life. But the sea, normally virulent and unpredictable, is quiet and unbearably still. The stars seem to continue into the water below, and the air is almost suffocating. He turns to look down and into the ocean, and he swears he sees swirls of blood in the depths; that the sea that he loves so has not yet washed away his sins. He swallows his unease and follows his instincts.

And so, he heads inside.

He finds his captain’s quarters, hesitant to enter, and the presence puts a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Slowly, cautiously, he wanders in. On his desk he finds, among other things scattered across it, _Meditations_ open to where Thomas had dedicated it to him, and Thomas’ ring, the one he had lost.

†

Plans to escape were tempered by the winter. James heeded Thomas’ word to keep his head low and to stay out of trouble, although it was clear that was difficult for even him. In the winter, they set to work around the plantation, primarily in repairs, and in their break times, huddled around the hearth, James could see Thomas’ drive to inspire others still burned as brightly as the fire itself. “Your new salon,” James had joked.

“It kept me sane all these years,” Thomas had replied.

Topic of conversation was typically broad with talks of economy or literacy; he educated almost as much as he debated, but not all in the plantation were poor, run-of-the-mill criminals. Some were bastards of nobles they had angered, some were disgraced but formerly-respected military men. They had been important enough to be sent somewhere to work rather than be killed or rot in prison. This was where men were sent to disappear, although James was still evaluating his status here. Were they prisoners or slaves?

When the guards on watch were the men Thomas had befriended, topic of conversation changed. No longer did Thomas sidestep with the widely uncontroversial talk of literacy, but he threw out the question of _rehabilitation_ for criminals.

“On principle, the idea is rather simple,” he explained to James. “Not all crimes are equal, and that should be considered when deciding punishment. As the current justice system stands, this is not at all implemented: petty crime is punishable by death.” Thomas stopped and eyed James, the sort of look he gave him when he wanted assurance James was following. He continued, after James gave him a nod: “Consider the poor and desperate. Those who had no choice but to turn to crime in order to survive.”

“Crimes out of desperation are more endemic than simple rehabilitation,” said James, frowning.

“You _are_ right, and that is a different matter entirely. But the point of the matter is that a man who turned to crime out of desperation is not worthy of the same punishment as a man who had committed high treason.”

“So then lock him up and don’t hang him!” It was Philip on guard today; one of the guards, James learned, who wanted simply to be apart of the conversation. He spoke with an Essex accent, and while burlier than most of the men in the room, he was hardly a _Billy_ , James thought to himself. “You can’t just let him go, he’ll just steal from somewhere else, just as you said.”

“Ah,” said Thomas, a grin growing on his face. “So you understand why this is an _endemic_ problem, as James has so kindly pointed out. Crimes of desperation will occur so long as the poor are desperate.”

Sitting closest to the fire was John Hogarth, an ex-brigadier in the Royal Army about a decade his senior. He had been sent away for similar reasons as Thomas, and he and James had come to a mutual agreement: they would abstain from using each other’s old military ranks. It had been a decision brought forth by James, who had been called Lieutenant for the first time in years by John. Thomas had not refrained from talking about James, it seemed, as the ex-brigadier had greeted him as _Lieutenant McGraw._ John spoke up next with a visible frown. “This has nothing to do with rehabilitation,” he muttered.

“Perhaps not,” replied Thomas. “And we may discuss the matter of addressing that endemic problem some other time. But would any of you in this room object to a second chance in society? That perhaps those who _have_ committed crimes could be taught and re-educated such that they may be re-integrated as non-criminals? Certainly a punishment should not take your entire life.”

“And what sort of re-education are you suggesting?”

The conversation reminded James of their talks of Nassau, of what to do with the pirate problem. He almost smiled. “Teach them to work,” he said, remembering the old proposal. “You punish them for the initial crime, but rather than eternally punishing them, you give them a life. Send them off after a sentence in prison with a job and a trade.”

“But would that work?” asked Philip.

“What would they have to lose?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to reference Cesare Beccaria but he wasn't born yet Dx His treatise, _On Crime and Punishment_ , was published in 1764 and if I remember correctly, he spoke out against the death penalty, proposing that punishment to a crime should deter and the state should not use it as a means of vengeance. He proposed a few other things, like that punishment should be brief if it is to be effective, that severity was not necessarily effective but rather the probability of getting punished _was_.... Needless to say, I think Thomas would've greatly agreed with him.
> 
> Anyway!! I'm really enjoying writing these vignettes, but school starts up again next week and I'm running low on headcanons of things they might've discussed. If anyone has ideas, please hit me up! Either here or on my [tumblr](http://smerkatsya.tumblr.com/)


	3. iii

His dreams, once again, take him to the _Walrus,_ stranded at sea in perpetual dusk. In the silence, only his footsteps can be heard (although he swears he hears his breath as it quickens, shallow and racing like his heart), and he paces ‘round the mainmast before falling to the temptation to look into the sea. It beckons him, as it always has, with a cruel sort of love he only knew the sea to have; but now there is fear of what may lie beneath the surface, of what the waters may reveal.

He peers over the edge, hesitant in his actions, expecting the sea to have run red. Instead it is as dark as night, barely reflecting the dim light from above. He can see stars below the water, swirling like debris, though the ship remains unnaturally still. And above, he swears he sees a cloud pass over the featureless sky, but soon more roll in, and he realizes as they fall and tumble onto the deck of his ship, that it is smoke, not cloud, dark and acrid.

Blinking through the black smoke, he instinctively thinks of _fire_ and turns to take shelter below, but as he does, his surroundings change. No longer, he realizes, is he in the familiar cabins of the _Walrus_ , but on a ship far more luxurious. He recognizes, slowly, the interior of the _Maria Aleyne_ , and when he opens the cabin door, Lord Alfred Hamilton stares at him with dead eyes from behind the desk. He stands, despite the wounds and the blood, with a hand on the sword James used to kill him, pointedly aimed at James.

He swallows, despite the dryness of his mouth, and he waits; waits for Lord Alfred Hamilton to open his mouth, to say _something_ regarding his murder. James looks to the floor, prying his eyes away from the dead stare of Alfred Hamilton. In front of the desk lay more dead, and he realizes, slowly, that he recognizes them. That between him and Alfred Hamilton lay the bodies of the men who died in his pursuit of the _Maria Aleyne_ , the consequence of his relentless chase for vengeance. He remembers the brief feeling of closure when he told Miranda of Alfred Hamilton’s death, and he grits his teeth and faces the Earl, whose face seems to _crack_ , whose mouth stretches into a grin.

And time seems to slow.

The bodies on the floor pile up, more he recognizes, who were lost during the pursuit of the _Urca_ gold, while the smoke from above seeps through the wood. He drowns, before he awakes, in acrid smoke and golden coins falling from the ceiling.

†

Today, work around the plantation is minimal, but the surveillance remains tight. The guards bind their hands when working with tools, and though James has come to like Charles, the man still holds a gun across his chest, watching James fumbling to repair the crumbling stone of the cold cellar. James pauses, flexing his fingers to regain some circulation.

Charles, it seems, has grown impatient. “C’mon, Flint—“ James winces at his insistence on calling him that “—the sooner you finish up here the sooner we can settle back by the fire.” He hears the man shudder. “I’m bloody freezing down here….”

“Can’t work if my hands are numb,” James mutters as he breathes onto his hands in attempt to warm them up. For a moment, in the dark, the dirt on his hands looks to him like blood, caked into the lines and creases of his skin. He frowns at them before stuffing them under the thin jacket he had been given. “Besides,” he continues, “the plaster’s frozen solid.”

“Hrmpf, maybe I can convince someone to let me – and thus you – out early. It’s too damn cold.” Charles kneels to shackle James’ wrists once more, a routine he had gotten used to but no more accepted. He hates being a prisoner, in shackles on a plantation, but the winter makes it hard to even imagine an escape. They are too isolated to travel in the cold, and the nights would prove dangerous without proper shelter. He is reluctant, but their escape will have to wait.

James looks back down to his hands, still covered in dirt (though, he thinks, better dirt and grime and blood and lost lives). He does not think their escape will be bloodless, but he prays it is the last.

†

“In my relative solitude, I’ve had time to contemplate my father’s true nature surrounding this entire disaster. Or, perhaps, intentions would be the better wording.”

“His intentions in imprisoning you?”

“Yes.” A reluctant pause. “It’s… not as straightforward as I had initially thought. Nor perhaps what you may think.”

“Alfred Hamilton was obsessed with appearances and the two of us would have had him shunned from society.”

“Yes, but honestly I may have been on the brink of doing that myself. Even before you.”

“In the salons?”

“Imagine, perhaps, how dangerous I must have sounded. Politically. I knew, without a doubt, that I may have sounded like a Jacobite sympathizer to some. That I was toeing the line of being called a traitor to the crown and was too stubborn to let that scare me.”

“You’ve always been an idealist, Thomas. You looked to the best in people.”

“I looked to what I _wanted_ to see in people.”

“You sought good.”

“Yes.”

“And your father had you imprisoned for it.”

“I’m sure there were rumours about me. About my salons, about what chatter might be found in my home. Some, pertaining to Miranda and some pertaining to you and I. But I always had suspected how many of those rumours began simply because I spoke of topics deemed too controversial.”

“The powerful will always be afraid of change; they will do whatever they can to maintain their wealth and prosperity and status, and fuck whoever wants to better society. So they lock away the dissidents because they are afraid of what power their words may hold. They create monsters out of them, nurturing a fear in their young so they continue to be scared when they grow old. And in your father’s case, well, it may have been more than just your dangerous politics that scared him.”

“You and I were a breaking point for him – an excuse to shut me up completely.”

“I lost men hunting down your father. It was a gruelling chase, which only succeeded in making me _more_ angry when I finally boarded the _Maria Aleyne_. He recognized me. He begged, and pleaded, but he recognized me. Even in his last moments, wearing his wig, he embodied the greed and superficiality of London and England…. There he was, the man who sent his son away to rot, all to maintain an image he had of himself. An image more dear to him than family itself.”

“I wanted to challenge England, to change it.”

“So did I.”

“You declared war, and I tried to dismantle England through words alone.”

“Strange pairs, you and I…. But I think we could have been successful.”

“So do I.”

†

Thomas’ touch could melt James’ body and his kiss could launch a fleet, declare a war. The thought had occurred to him more than once, in his heart-blinded comparison to Helen of Troy. But he had had no fleet to command in his war – he was one man with one ship, and his enemy was the entirety of England. And in its corruption, England had been a corpse animated by maggots and flies, acting as though it was a sovereign nation not built upon death, and terror, and slavery; it was a monster that had _dared_ call him a monster. And while he was finally reunited with Thomas, with his one true love, he was constantly reminded of that England he so wished to be free of, for the plantation was no more than another prison built by the empire.

“How long,” James began as he lay with his head on Thomas’ lap. “How long do you wager it would take for us to procure a library as extensive as your old one?”

“Decades,” Thomas replied, fingers laced through James’ short hair. “Unless you have some stash of gold lying somewhere.”

“You know I do.”

“Not the _Urca_ gold.”

James looked up to see Thomas’ grin at his joke and smiled back, reveling in his face. He had ten years’ worth of Thomas to make up for, and he adored every line and crease that seemed almost painted in the dim light. “We’ll find enough gold for the two of us to survive. Retire somewhere quiet, perhaps own a farm.” James realized his disingenuity even as he said it; he wanted quiet yes, but he was unsure if he could ever leave behind the sea. And Thomas, well, if Thomas could form a salon even within a slave-run plantation, then he would want at least a small town nearby. He would find a group and foster minds as he did and would always do.

“So long as you and I remain together, safe and warm, I’d hardly be too choosey.” Thomas leaned down to give James a kiss, reaching with his other hand to pull the covers over the two of them. He smiled into James’ mouth, the curl of his lip tracing James’ own. Thomas pulled him up, wrapped his arms around him, and buried his face into James’ hair. This was the sort of intimacy that James had missed, and he tightened his fingers around Thomas’ shirt, pressing his head into Thomas’ chest. He knew there was truth in Thomas’ words, as exhausted as he was. They would be happy together, safe together. Flint had exhausted him, but he couldn’t bury him just yet. He thought back to what Thomas had said, that Flint was an inherent part of him, and he wondered. He wondered there, in Thomas’ arms in a small cot surrounded by the walls of the plantation. He wondered whether an escape would be possible without Flint.

After all, he still itched for an escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's started up again... Hopefully I can finish this ^^;;
> 
> The dream sequences are uh, more than just a dream, if anyone can figure that out. Also, I feel like I need to refresh my memory on 17th-18th century British politics just to write certain scenes with Thomas, so if some things take longer, probably that.


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short! I just.... wanted to update because it's been almost a month and I Feel Bad.
> 
> I've done a lot of writing this semester but it's been mostly for class, and it's been veeerrry busy.

For the first time in a decade, James and Thomas explore each other, find themselves. It’s rushed and rough and indignifying, but they’re both beyond caring. “Soon,” James whispers, “we’ll be somewhere private, together. Somewhere safe.”

Thomas grins at the man who declared war for him, kisses the hands that had bled in his memory; then the shoulders, neck, jaw, lips.

The plantation never leaves their minds, as much as they had pushed aside the cold floor they lay on, and the thin door and walls that separates them from the rest. They keep their sounds quiet and soft; hope that their sighs and gasps are barely above audible to anyone but themselves.

Thomas had realized his longing for touch before, finally now able to carry through and he feels that same desperation within James. There is a hunger shared between them both, fueled by heartbreak and time. He had though James gone and dead, at the least moved on. And yet here he is, still alive and still in love.

The caretakers in Bedlam had, more than once, read from the Bible and spoke of sin. And while perhaps he had once called himself a Protestant, Thomas had questioned his faith then and there. He thinks back on that now, with James’ arms around him as they move together in rhythm; God did not judge those who loved wholly and truly. After all, there were far greater sins than love and compassion.

†

“I don’t believe a quiet escape will be possible,” James whispers as soon as he’s sure the others are asleep. “It’s too heavily guarded, too far from anywhere we could hide.” He feels an exhaustion return; the weight of having to bear being to Captain Flint settles on his shoulders. He looks to Thomas, who nods sympathetically, who smiles sadly at the thought. James wants to utter an _I’m sorry_ , and his mouth shapes the words but no sound forms in his throat.

Thomas takes his hands. They are both bruised and battered – their skin calloused and rough. He pulls them together, squeezes them tight. “You worry I’ll be harmed,” he says, resting his forehead against James’. “Or that I’ll be somehow offended to see Captain Flint.”

James searches for words. There’s a part of him that wishes to reassure Thomas that he doesn’t underestimate him, that he doesn’t feel he would need to be his protector. But despite the years having taken a hold on them both, he still sees the London nobleman when he looks at Thomas’ face. He thinks back to Thomas’ verbal brawls from the safety of his salon and can’t help but think to his own brawls, that ended in blood and destruction. “You know I don’t—” he begins, only to be cut off by a kiss.

“What?” Thomas’ eyes glint with amusement. “I know you still think, somewhere, that I’m some prissy noble. It’s been a decade, James. I can handle it.” He waits for a response from James, who simply nods. “If it helps ease your concerns, you may carry me out with your own two arms.” Thomas grins as he talks, rolling his eyes at the jest.

James smiles, running a hand across Thomas’ arms. “That would mean letting your newly-acquired muscles go to waste,” he chides.

“A decade,” Thomas repeats, still grinning. “These are not new.”

“They’re new to me.”

†

This time, James is below the decks of the _Walrus._ The smoke seems to linger in the corners of the ship, obscuring the doors and halls. The presence on his back urges him forward, taking his arm and pulling him toward the upper deck.

He follows, amid the smoke and shadows, up and up and up despite his instincts.

Above and outside, the sky is brighter than before, and he spots four new stars scattered across an otherwise nondescript night. When he steps onto the deck, his boots stick, and he looks down in the dim light to see it coated in something dark. He bends down, touches it, and examines the red that transfers onto his fingers. The blood on the wood glimmers under the new stars.

He rises once more, glances at the darkened edges along the periphery of the ship, and notices the figures standing motionless in the shadows. They stand opposite to each other, on opposite ends of the _Walrus_. He recognizes the silhouette of a woman, whose image soon comes into clarity. He turns to the other silhouette and feels a pit in his gut as he deciphers the features of the man to the other side.

Hal Gates and Miranda Hamilton.

Below, the blood rises to cover his boots, settling near his ankles. Above, the stars pulse white. And while he realizes that all blood is blood is blood is blood is blood, the blood of some runs thick and some as thin as water. For the blood shed from his men and his crew felt like rain to be shed, but the deaths of Miranda, of Gates, of even Alfred Hamilton, felt like a load to bear.

Further and beyond, opposite to him, stood another figure, indistinguishable yet. The smoke pours over the edge of the ship, over still waters and still blood, and James steps forward into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry it's so short! (/□＼*)・゜I think I'll try to wrap this up in the next chapter, however long that takes.


	5. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE - I'm so sorry it took so long this semester kicked my ASS.

Though the books were long gone, James found that Thomas still muttered excerpts as they lay in bed; scattered lines from equally scattered works, strung together by the sound of Thomas’ voice and the determination that laced it. Words, for Thomas, were no more empty than the waters of the sea – they were pregnant with thought, full of meaning, and drove their vessels forward toward the future.

James joked on many an occasion that Thomas had shifted his metaphors to appease him, that the sea did not come naturally for Thomas. But now that his lover was a sailor, “It only seems natural,” the lord had replied. And while the words that James remembered most were not inherently Thomas’ (there was Milton and Locke and Hobbes and of _course_ Aurelius and Chaucer and the Bible – how could he forget the Bible?), he remembered them through Thomas’ voice. Did that not mean, in some degree, that those words were now Thomas’? Could he sever the memory from the meaning of the words? The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t sure he ever did sever it. That somehow, the word of God Himself became less of morality and more of Thomas.

Even now, reunited, James was lulled back into sleep by the rhythm of Thomas’ voice. God (or rather, Thomas) forgive him for tuning out the language in those words. It was the sound that comforted him most; the physical presence of his lover at his ear. He vaguely registered a “Good-night” from a Thomas who realized he wasn’t going to pry the answer that he wanted out of James. He was too mentally exhausted to philosophize.

†

By spring, James knows who within the plantation he can trust. Thomas has fostered conspiracy amongst the workers and some of the guards; and while James has only a fraction of the silver on Thomas’ tongue, together they are an unstoppable force. _Silver_ , he thinks, with a slight bitterness. Thomas is not the only formidable partner he’s had. But he knows he can trust Thomas – trusting Silver had been a mistake. He glances to Thomas, whom James knows full well he was only granted reunion because of Silver, and bites back some of that malice. He isn’t grateful, no. Silver thought only for himself, and it so happened that James benefitted. But he is _relieved_ to see Thomas, to love him and hold him again. Then he glances again to the confines of the plantation, muscles tense with contempt and itching to be free. Had Silver sought to pacify him? Had that been the deciding factor in buying away his freedom?

 _Soon,_ he thinks as the guards circle ‘round.

_Soon._

†

What does it take to convince an employed man to abandon his job? To convince him to set free his charges at the risk of becoming a criminal himself?

One must appeal to his heart, Thomas wagers. Remind him that he is a good man with good intentions and that setting free these workers would only be for the benefit of them all. One must also appeal to his selfish nature – promise to reward him and ensure he believes it.

†

In the darkness atop the _Walrus_ , James is confronted with a familiar face. Familiar, though not as he had last seen him; his face is less battered, but he still lacks a leg. His mouth opens mockingly, though his lips do not move.

“Do you see it now, Flint? Can’t you understand what I’ve done? What _you’ve_ done to deserve this?”

Behind him still stands the bodies of Hal and Miranda. Their dead eyes boring into his back, as he glances over his shoulder cautiously. He returns his gaze to Silver.

“It had to be done. _You_ had to be _un_ done. Nassau lay in the wake of destruction of your own design and will take decades to recover. Were their deaths worth it? Is this not a better place for you?”

“You sought to incapacitate me.”

“Face your sins, Flint.”

“And what of yours?”

James’ words stumble out in a sneer. He feels the agency of his body leave him, stuck where he stands on increasingly-sticky grounds. The blood from below seeps through the cracks of the deck, and the new stars hanging in the sky shine bright as day.

Yet still, Silver stands in a shadow and he grins.

“My sins are irrelevant. We do not stand here today to put myself on trial for the blood we stand in. It’s hardly my doing.”

Black smoke swirls around James’ ankles, tumbling over the rails of the ship. He closes his eyes and presses his lips together in a grimace. He could not deny that he has struggled with his sins; that the burden of his decisions hangs low above his head. What monster had he created in Flint? A necessary one, he had decided. _And necessary still,_ he thinks.

The slow bubbling of his anger slows still to a near halt.

Are his sins so unforgivable?

The world would continue to turn despite the chaos he had created – the shadows painted by England would still remain and along with it, its monsters. England had condemned him as such long before he had become Flint, before he had killed Alfred Hamilton, before he had gained his reputation at sea.

 _Face your sins_.

Perhaps repenting is not for him. He has too much pride, too much anger in him still. The shadows may disappear in overcast, but never are they truly gone. He would not step into the light to be forced to his knees in the presence of the crown.

_Accept your sins._

Perhaps, instead, he will embrace them. He has learned to live amongst the shadows for far too long now. There is no denying the blood, no hiding the lives lost. But he is tired, and Thomas’ words spill out of his own mouth:

“ _Violence is an integral part of the very fabric of your being_.”

Flint was not wholly a construct, and the exhaustion he feels is terribly real. He cannot repent, for why should God excuse him? How could he possible be excused? Swallow those sins. Wear them, accept them. _One should not be afraid to confront them._

Silver, before him, simply nods. The blackened smoke surrounding them fades, receding back along with the blood at his feet into the still waters below.

He feels the hands of both Hal and Miranda, one hand on each shoulder; their eyes alive and sparkling.

It is now bright as day. The stars above shine brighter than the Sun.

And with a _crack_ , the world tears apart.

†

The day he and Thomas decide to break free, James feels the burden of Flint return to his breast above his heart. He squeezes Thomas’ shoulder in reassurance, avoiding Thomas’ passing glance of concern, nodding to John Hogarth who stands across the room. The ex-brigadier uncrosses his arms from over his chest and exits to the outdoors. James follows a few beats behind,

This escape will not be quiet, nor will it be bloodless. James – Flint – had decided weeks ago that those who cooperate will leave this mess unscathed. Those who resist risk death.

At the doors to the fields stands Philip and Russell; they hand James and Hogarth a rifle each, before producing pistols from their jackets. It feels strange to be armed again, to be a visible threat, but somehow it also feels _right_. Hogarth curls his finger around the trigger and nods to him. “After you, Captain,” he mutters.

The edge of James’ mouth twitches in a grimace. _Captain, indeed._ He steps onto the muddy fields, aims his rifle at an unsuspecting guard – one of the many who had not been made sympathetic to their cause. He feels for the trigger and pulls. _This is Captain Flint’s doing._

The crack of the rile echoes above the plantation grounds. By now, Hogarth has begun firing himself, wasting no time to allow the enemy guards to gather themselves in retaliation. They fall, bleeding and pained, although they grit their teeth as they rise again to their feet, intent on serving their duty. Some of the other prisoners run, but many raise their hoes and cry for freedom as they cut down their captors.

It is a skirmish rather than a battle, but as Flint approaches a straggling guard and knocks him down the butt of his rifle, he remembers his fight against Hornigold, then his fight with Rogers and his men. He is fortunate, he thinks, that he has some guards on his side at all. Poor Philip, Charles, Roger, George, and Russell may be running from the authorities for the rest of their lives, but he made a mental note to ask them to remain near wherever they decide to settle. He was sure Thomas would want to reward them for their sacrifice.

Flint stood over a body on a bloodied field, turning back to the manor itself. The warden has been alerted by now, surely. It was a matter of stopping him and anyone else before they can reach Oglethorpe himself.

†

What makes a lord of England kill in cold blood?

Thomas has been handed a pistol from Charles. It is heavier than he had expected, though not nearly as heavy as the rifles he had carried whilst hunting.

“Can you fire this?” Charles had asked.

Thomas knew that was a question of whether he knew _how_ to fire a gun, but it felt awfully like a question of wills and morals. _Can_ he fire a gun? Into the heart of another man?

“Yes,” he had answered.

He had long ago stopped being Lord Thomas Hamilton, but there is still a part of him that feels intrinsically tied to the nobility of which he had been born. What would it look like? A lord murdering another officer to the crown?

Charles leads the way through the chaos of the manor (here, it feels like a manor proper and not a front to the bare minimum in which the workers lived). The women run when he and Charles approach as they work toward the upper chambers, to the office of the warden. His hand around the pistol is hot from sweat, but he maintains his grip and prays he is a quick draw.

They arrive at the doors to the warden’s office, just as the warden is leaving, himself also armed.

Thomas raises his gun.

What makes a lord kill out of cold blood?

One strips him of his title and deprives him of his humanity. This is not a nobleman murdering another officer of the crown. This is a slave demanding freedom.

†

Flint watches as the window of the warden’s office shatters, the glass falling to the ground below like snow in the sunlight. He sees Thomas’ blonde head emerge from inside, carrying the warden’s body and pushing it over the side. It falls onto the glass, cracking in unnatural ways; a fortunate victim of gravity.

He and Thomas lock eyes. There is no celebration on Thomas’ face, nor is there grief. There is relief, and peace perhaps.

Thomas disappears into the building once more, only to return momentarily, running across the bloodied field to meet him. Flint – James – opens his arms for an embrace, grinning as Thomas greets him.

“Is it done?” Thomas asks.

James looks around the plantation. The remaining guards were either sympathetic or have surrendered, kneeling in the mud with their hands behind their heads. Hogarth is rounding up whoever is left, reassuring the other prisoners and directing them to tie up the guards.

“It’s done,” James replies.

Thomas takes his hand.

“What’s next?” asks James.

“I don’t know,” Thomas replies, shaking his head. “Someplace quiet.”

James smiles. “Someplace quiet,” he echoes. “Do you think we could live within England’s light?” He thinks that even in the Americas he is confined by the crown’s colonies, that the fight to make Nassau a pirate republic had failed. Where could he go to escape it?

“I think we can live despite it,” says Thomas. “We _will_ live despite it, God help us.”

James scans the scene before him. “God help us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaahhhhh my writing shifted a bit at the end here idk how i feel about it. it's definitely uh different. i also have _no idea_ how well i executed this ending but here we are!! i'm pretty happy about some of the language with this and i _kind of_ want them to fulfill toby stephen's b &b in england headcanon but i'll leave it open for what they ended up doing.
> 
> uuummm thank you if you stuck around for this .-. i appreciate it greatly!!


End file.
